


Part III: Ménage a Q

by jenlcb



Series: Delayed Gratification [3]
Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 10:18:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9230573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenlcb/pseuds/jenlcb
Summary: Q bids farewell to the pediatrician. Without his guidance (interference), she has to lead her away team and save a bunch of orphans on her own. But her REAL mission is to seek out the man who killed her parents. A man named... Negan. (Whaaat?)





	1. Turn on the Spotlight

**Author's Note:**

> "Jaxon Traegar" was the way my fingers couldn't type "Jason Traeger." He was an original minor character but I decided to make him sexy. I was going to make him Jason Crouse from "The Good Wife," but that crossover made absolutely no sense. Demon John Winchester would have made much more sense, but the character was much more Negan. Either way, the character had a "look" I was going for.

Dr. T’Mollek O’Reilly walked into the _Enterprise_ sickbay with some trepidation. She needed to speak with Dr. Beverly Crusher, the chief medical officer, regarding the assignments to the away team on Algalon.  

Crusher looked up at her from the desk in her office and smiled. When the young pediatrician had first arrived on the _Enterprise_ , Crusher had helped counsel her through a strange romance with an omniscient entity known as Q. But after his sudden disappearance several months ago, the naturally reticent T’Mollek had become even more withdrawn.

“T’Mollek! Come in,” Crusher said.

“Thank you, sir.” She sat down. “I was inquiring about the away team.”

“Yes?”                                                                                     

“I would like to volunteer, if you think I could contribute.”

“Well, yes I do,” Crusher said with a smile. “I'm glad to hear you think so, too. Up until now, you haven't seemed to show much interest in anything but your own research. And since the children on this ship almost never get sick . . .”

“You believe I have been lazy?” T’Mollek asked stiffly.

“Well, no, not lazy. You work hard. It's just that . . . well, I didn't think you were interested in anything outside your own research. Whatever that might be.” She was prompting her, trying to get her to open up.

T’Mollek did not share with Crusher that she had been studying Algalonian physiology and the possible reasons Vulcans were immune to Tarsen’s disease. She did not wish to appear overly ambitious.

“I see,” T’Mollek said simply. “Well, I would be interested in helping out on Algalon. I had hoped to be asked.”

“T'Mollek, from one Starfleet officer to another,” said Crusher confidentially, “you can't just wait around to be asked.”

“I am beginning to understand that,” she said. Then after a pause, she prompted, “So?”

“I would be thrilled to have you on the team, T'Mollek,” Crusher said enthusiastically. ”It's as if the mission was made with you in mind.”

“Thank you,” T’Mollek replied. She nearly smiled at the unintended irony in Crusher’s statement.

After a moment’s pause, Crusher asked, “T'Mollek?

“Yes, Doctor?”

“How are you? Since Q left, I mean. Are you doing all right?”

“I am doing fine,” she answered placidly.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“About Q’s leaving? No, I would not. As for the away team, I would also recommend Dr. Bechdel.” With that, she stood up and stalked off, leaving Crusher to sigh and shake her head.

***

The bridge crew were at their stations and preparations were being made for arrival at Algalon. Course was set for standard orbit. Hailing frequencies were opened and Captain Jean-Luc Picard introduced himself to Jaxon Traegar, president of the penal colony. They made arrangements for Commander Will Riker to beam down with the leader of the medical away team and discuss the situation on the planet and what was needed of them. Traegar explained that a recent skirmish with Romulan forces had left their infrastructure damaged and some supplies and other aid would be appreciated.

After the transmission had ended, Counselor Deanna Troi, the half-Betazoid ship’s counselor, remarked that Traegar had seemed surprised to hear from them. However, the empath was the only one who noticed anything strange regarding his demeanor.

Captain Picard asked Riker to step into his ready room to discuss the away team assignment.

“I have the feeling I know what you're going to say,” said Riker tightly, once they had seated themselves.

“I think Dr. O'Reilly should lead the team.”

“And I think you couldn't be more wrong,” Riker said firmly.

“There is more to her than meets the eye,” Picard said. “She's a hard worker. Even her Starfleet record shows that.”

“So she's a workhorse. That doesn't make her a leader.”

“She just needs a push.”

“She's in Starfleet. She shouldn't need a push.” Riker looked Picard in the eye, then said quietly, “Jean-Luc. I’ve never known you to reward mediocrity. Who is she to you?”

Picard frowned. “She’s merely the former ward of a Vulcan ambassador I happen to respect a great deal.”

“I understand that. But T’Mollek’s only notable accomplishments in her entire Starfleet career were thanks to Q. He fed her that clue that led us to the cave where he’d hidden the Orion girl. He brought her to the Blotorkian ship during his trial. When Q left, she went right back to the shadows.”

Picard nodded. “That is true . . . Perhaps Dr. Bechdel is the right choice to lead after all.”

Relieved, Riker brought it home. “Who knows what damage she’ll cause without Q’s guidance? This mission should be right up her alley—low-stress, low-danger—but she didn’t even volunteer until—”

“Oh, Riker,” interrupted a snide voice that had appeared out of nowhere, “just because your idea of leadership is to constantly put yourself into the spotlight, doesn't mean that's the only way.”

Q stood beside the two officers. He and T’Mollek had had a similar argument early on in their relationship, and he was echoing T’Mollek’s own words to him as if they were his own. “She's a quiet leader. Waiting to be called upon is her style of leadership. Who are you to say she's wrong?”

Riker glared at Picard but addressed Q, his voice deep with annoyance again. “I say it's lazy and it's cowardly. How long have you been here?”

Speaking low and conspiratorially Q whispered, “As far as the Continuum is concerned, I'm not. I've been forbidden from returning to your realm.”

“So you've risked punishment from the Q Continuum just to make a case for O'Reilly as leader of the away team?” Riker said with exasperation.

“What's the harm in her leading the team?” Q said cajolingly, ignoring Riker’s perfectly valid question. “You should _see_ all the research she’d been doing on the disease! Why, she’s practically the universe’s foremost expert on the subject. And as you said, it's a low-stress, low-danger mission. Especially for her. She’s a Vulcan—can’t get infected by Tarsen’s.”

“That is true,” Picard said to Riker, remembering why he’d been defending her in the first place. “She’ll diagnose the children, administer an appropriate cure, and once they’re clear of the disease, we'll bring them on board for transport to Betagon.”

Riker looked at him in disbelief. He was taking council from Q! “You've made up your mind,” he said flatly.

“I have.”

“You realize Q just manipulated the situation to her benefit again, don't you?”

“I manipulate nothing!” Q protested. “I merely point out the facts. She is a humble, yet dedicated officer, who only lives to serve.”

“She’s a worker bee with no command experience,” Riker countered. “I'm not sure how her superior officers will feel taking orders from her.”

“When Wesley Crusher was an acting ensign,” Picard said, “you _convinced_ me to allow him to lead an away team. His superior officers took orders from him. Hers will do the same.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Riker said, “Dr. O’Reilly is no Wesley Crusher.” Then he scoffed, resigned. “All right. I'm sending Data to pilot the ship and help out with infrastructure. At least he won't have an ego to bruise.”

“A fine idea, Number One.”

In a deep, Picardian voice, complete with stentorian accent, Q added, “Indeed!”

Riker and Picard swung to glare at him. In his own voice, Q added hastily, throwing his hands in the air, “I was never here!”

He snapped his fingers and vanished.

Riker grimaced.

Picard gave a little half-scowl and muttered, “Dismissed.”

***

Riker strode down the corridor toward Ten Forward. He was not in any hurry to give T’Mollek the news. However, when he turned a corner, she was walking toward him, fresh from a particularly vigorous and bloody workout in the holodeck.

“Doctor,” he greeted her. “Your face looks terrible.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“So you finally stepped up to the plate and volunteered for a mission.”                     

“I did.”

“Captain Picard is counting on you,” he said. “I hope you don't disappoint him.”           

“But you suspect I will,” she challenged.

“I just hope this apparent newfound ambition and initiative continues.”

“But you suspect it will not.”

“If it weren't for Q, you would be nothing,” he said. “You realize that, right?”

She looked him in the eye. She realized that more than he could ever know. “Commander,” she said, steeling herself, “if you want me off this away team, then take me off.”

He studied her eyes. She almost seemed to be begging him to do so. After a pause, he sighed, “It's not up to me. The captain believes in you.”

He regarded her once more. “Do you even want to be here?”

“I want to do what is expected of me,” she said in reply.

“If you only do what's expected of you, then your mediocrity will get people hurt in the long run.”

She looked down. She did not doubt that for a moment. It was her third greatest fear.

“What happened to your face?” he asked, a bit more gently.

“Knife battle in the holodeck.”

He scoffed and looked away. “Meet Counselor Troi and me at Transporter Room 10 at fifteen hundred hours.”

“Sir?”

“We’re meeting with Jaxon Traegar, the president of the Algalon Colony, for a debrief before the away team assembles.”

“But sir, why am I needed?”

As if he didn’t believe the words himself, he said, “You’re leading the team.”

“I’m— _what_?”

He stalked away, barking, “Fifteen hundred hours. Don’t be late!”

***

T’Mollek continued on to her quarters to prepare for the debrief, her head spinning—both from the news she’d received from Riker and the blows she’d received from her holographic opponent, the luchador known as Specter. She rounded the corner.

“ _That_ didn't sound pleasant,” said Q, casually against a wall, his arms folded.

Somewhat startled, she took a deep breath and walked past him. “Nothing I can't handle.” His timing truly was the worst.

“What's Riker's damage, anyway?” he asked, falling in beside her.

“I believe he was utilizing an old disciplinary technique known as 'tough love.'”

“He's just mad that I talked Picard into making you the leader of the away mission.”

T’Mollek stopped short. “You did _what_?”

“Picard was on the fence,” Q said, beaming. “Riker was making some . . . admittedly _valid_ points about your less-than-stellar record. He called you a 'workhorse.'”

“A ‘work _horse’_ . . . ?”

“But don't you worry, _mon petit poney_ , I managed to tip the scales over to _our_ side.”

“‘ _Our’_ side? Q, I do not wish to lead this team.”

“Well, get over it, 'cause ya can't back out now.”

“How many times must I say this? Stop. Helping.”

“Look, Molls, I'm taking a big chance being here,” Q said. “The Continuum ordered me to stay away from you, to give up on you—much as Riker has. But I'm not quite ready to write you off just yet.”

“Please, just follow your orders. Go away.” She arrived at her door and added, a little less than convincingly, “And stay away.” She entered her room, leaving Q behind.

T’Mollek walked over to her dresser and looked at her reflection in the mirror above it. She had been so surprised by her encounters with Riker and with Q that she had completely forgotten to go to sickbay to get her cuts taken care of. She had to wonder if all of the pain and humiliation, all of the struggling and the arguing, was worth it. Would she even be able to do what she needed to on Algalon? And if she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—would she be throwing away the only family she had?

“What's the trouble, Bubble?” Q asked in a gently mocking tone, materializing behind her.

T’Mollek jumped slightly, then closed her eyes. “I need you to not be here anymore.”

Q ignored her but asked her in a serious voice, “This isn't about leading the away team, is it?”

She placed her hands on her dresser and looked down, steadying herself, calming herself, and she accepted the fact that she was apparently never going to succeed in ditching this man—or whatever he was. So if you can’t beat them, spill your heart out to them.

“I am faced with a choice,” she told him, “and I do not know how to proceed. Whichever course of action I choose will betray someone of great importance to me and bring me unrecoverable shame and dishonor.”

Q looked up, lightly ruminating on this conundrum. “I was faced with a choice once,” he said, by way of offering counsel. “I simply weighed all my options and determined which one most benefitted _me_ personally.” He dramatically leaned in to her, opening his eyes a little wider, trying to impress her. “ _Then I did the opposite_.”

T’Mollek gave him a withering look. “Neither course of action will benefit me in any way, and either will destroy my life as I know it.”

“Well, I tried!” he said flippantly.

“I did not ask you to try,” she said exasperatedly. “This is something I must resolve on my own. Why are you even here?”

“Well,” he said seriously, “not to make things worse, but, I thought you’d want to know. You remember Antius Bandeen, the businessman on Syroda who murdered that Orion mogul’s wife and tried to kidnap his daughter Kandeera? The one I saved by trapping her in a wall and then later hid her away in a cave in Andalusia so you could find her and they had that big feast celebrating your heroism? I materialized Bandeen’s molecules—and, I suppose, his immortal soul—into the walls of that same cave, and you told me I should ‘reassemble’ him so he could stand trial for his crimes?”

She waited a moment in case there was more. After two full seconds of silence, she responded, “Yes.”

“Well, I did, and I turned him in to the authorities. But he was released for lack of evidence. Then he came back and tried to kidnap Kandeera while she was playing outside her home. She fought back. She writhed out of his arms as he was spiriting her off, and she landed on her head on the concrete. She died.”

Although T’Mollek’s training in pure stoicism and logic should have overridden the utter shock and devastation that came with this news, her body went cold and her vision went momentarily gray. She felt her lungs tighten and heard a loud rushing in her ears.

Her face, however, registered absolutely nothing.

“How do you know this?” she asked faintly as soon as she was able.

“I was there,” he said calmly, eyeing her curiously. “I watched it happen.”

Her face became hot with rage. She felt her blood pressure rise to the point that she could smell the copper of her own blood. But still she remained perfectly calm. “You _let_ it happen.”

“You told me not to meddle,” he said, “not to ‘magick’ her again.” He added in a quietly mocking voice, “Careful what you wish for.”

“You were there because you knew it would happen. How?”

“I was monitoring Bandeen.”

“And you didn’t stop him?”

He shrugged. “Prime Directive. Non-interference.”

“That’s not what the Prime Directive is,” she said. “You didn't warn her father?”

“You told me not to use my 'magic.'”

“That's _not_ what I meant.” Her voice began to rise.

“You weren't very specific,” he said glibly.

“There is a world of difference between using your powers to terrorize a child and to warn a man that a predator is coming for his daughter.”

“He was off-planet. It would have taken weeks the conventional way— _your_ way.”

“You deliberately watched her die so that you could report back to me that you did nothing to prevent it.”

He shrugged.

“You presumably used your powers to get there in the first place.”

“My powers are how I get around. You use your legs and your space ships. I use _this._ ” He waved his hands in a flourish around his head. Some fireworks and confetti flew out with a small "ta da" fanfare.

“Can you bring her back?” she asked coldly.

“Theoretically, yes.”

“But you won't.”

“I could,” he admitted. “But there would be consequences.”

“For whom?”

“For me.”

“What sort of consequences?” she wanted to know.

“Ones you don't want to know about,” he said dangerously.

“ _What_ consequences?” she demanded.

Q glared at her with a defiant little sneer. “ _All_ of the consequences.”

T’Mollek paused, wondering if, in order to bring back the dead, a Q would be required to trade one life for another—and if that life might be his own. It would certainly help explain why the Q didn’t simply go around resurrecting the dead at will. Nevertheless, she was not about to forgive him.

“You killed that little girl,” she said quietly.

“ _You_ killed that little girl,” he countered ferociously. “I’d saved her before—twice. _You_ were the one who told me not to intervene again.”

“I meant not to use your powers to materialize her into a wall or a cave.”

“Then you should have said that.”

“You knew what I meant.”

“You want it both ways. I should use my powers to warn her father but not to hide her. Maybe I should have just put the Bandeen’s atoms into the cave? Oh wait, no. I did that once before, and you said that was—” his voice raised in a mocking whine, “ _wrong of me_. If I hadn’t ‘reassmbled’ Bandeen like you’d asked, Kandeera would still be alive. What's the difference between interfering and helping?”

T’Mollek didn’t have a good answer. “It is, admittedly, a fine line.”

“For millennia, people have prayed to their gods for miracles, only to be told no. I hand you miracles on a silver platter, and you reject them. Send them back to the kitchen like so much spoiled meat.”

“People only pray for miracles because they feel helpless,” T’Mollek said. “Praying is the only thing they have power over. They don’t really believe anyone will listen. Gods don't answer prayers.”

“And yet here I’ve been, offering you miracles.”

“Miracles I didn't ask for.”

“Sometimes people don't know what to ask for.”

“What makes you think you know what’s best for me?”

“What makes you think _you_ do?”

Again, T’Mollek had no answer. He had beaten her in this final battle of wits.

“What's the use of being a god if you let children die?” she asked helplessly, sinking onto her bed.

“I'm no god,” he told her, not happily. “‘Above all else, a god needs compassion.’ Captain James T. Kirk.”

“Compassion is not something you could ever be accused of having,” she agreed.

Q’s voice grew gentle. “Kandeera would have been killed or been kidnapped a year ago if I hadn't 'interfered' in the first place, if that makes you feel any better.”

“I am a Vulcan,” she said with pure stoicism. “It doesn't make me feel anything at all.”

“Neither of us believes that.”

T’Mollek opened her mouth to speak, but knew she would only say something emotional, so she stopped and curled her legs under her on the bed.

Q sat down close beside her. “Why do you care?” he asked, genuinely curious. “She’s not your family.”

“You put a little girl in a cave and led me there to make me face my fears, to make me a hero. Then you deliberately let her die to prove me wrong about your intervention. Playing with a child’s life to teach me lessons. It’s criminal. It’s . . . evil. Why are you making me the catalyst in these horrible games?”

“To demonstrate to you the difficult choices I have to make,” he said as if it were the most reasonable thing in the multiverse.

“But why would I care?” she asked.

“If you don't care,” he said in utter disappointment, “then it doesn’t matter.”

“ _What_ doesn’t matter?” she asked, perplexed. “Why are you talking in circles?”

He tried to explain. “I once offered Riker the powers of the Q. He refused them, letting a little girl die to spite me. I thought it was the ultimate selfish act, trading his miserable mortality for a little girl’s life.”

“It was an unfair test,” she told him. “Omnipotence is a terrible responsibility. No one should have that much power. When you change the inevitable, manipulate reality—”

“This _is_ my reality,” he said briskly. “My powers _are_ my reality. How _dare_ you demand I not use them as I see fit? Don't tell me how to be.”

“Remember those words the next time you tell me I’m not 'ambitious' enough.”

“I would never tell you not to use your telepathic powers to help someone probe the deepest recesses of their memory. I would never suggest you ignore your medical gifts and intuition to save a dying child's life. This is who _I_ am. I didn't choose to be omnipotent.” He scoffed and then added, as if to himself, “I _did_ choose to be mortal in order to please you, and look what good that did me.”

“You said you’d become human as a punishment,” she said.

“Well, it . . . _felt_ like a punishment,” he said, backpedaling. “Never mind! I am who I am and I make no apologies for that.”

“You are right,” she admitted. “But your power has made you cruel and amoral.”

“I’m not cruel, I’m not amoral; I’m just right.”

She shook her head. “Your belief in right and wrong run contrary to mine in every way. You have the capacity to help the greater good, but instead you cause chaos, torment, and discord. I once thought you were the greatest being I’d ever known.”

“How do you like me now?” he asked quietly.

“No more and no less than I ever have.”

“I don’t believe that one, either,” he said, glowering at her.

“We’re done here. You may go.” She stood up and walked to her dresser, opening a drawer and pulling random things out, pretending to pack. Q stood up, standing behind her and staring at her. T’Mollek turned back to him.

“Do you need something from me?” she asked impatiently.

“No,” Q said icily. “I don't need anything from you at all.” He proudly straightened himself up as tall as he could. “Good luck on Algalon. You're on your own, kid.” A beat passed and he added quietly, “Pack a sweater.”

And with that, he was gone.

T’Mollek took a deep, almost shaky breath. She turned to her fish carving and pulled on one of the dorsal spikes, releasing a trigger. All the spikes popped out at once, revealing another layer of fins and scales, all carved intricately out of bone. From within the inner layer, she pulled out a long, smooth knife, also carved from bone. The serrated blade was caked with dried blood, a mixture of red and green in color. She hid it in the back of her right boot, then exited her quarters.

***

T’Mollek went to Engineering to look for Lt. Commander Data. She found him and Lt. Commander Geordi LaForge, chief engineer of the _Enterprise_ , assembling equipment for the mission. Once again, T’Mollek found herself a bit star struck—this time, doubly so. These were two of the most brilliant minds in Starfleet. They had been responsible for saving the ship and her crew countless times—had risked death, had solved unsolvable mysteries, and had achieved more than she could ever dream of achieving. It made her head spin

She calmly approached the android. “Lieutenant Commander Data.” She held out her hand. “These were the microphones and receivers Q and I were given on the Blotorkian ship. Could they be modified to record, transmit, and play back sound?”

Data took the tiny, almost invisible items from her hand. The microphones were attached to thin, transparent disks that were self-adhesive to nearly any surface. The receivers, also transparent, fit snugly into the ears.

“Yes,” Data answered. “They could.” He handed them back to her and returned to his work.

Momentarily taken aback, she nearly turned and left. LaForge noticed this transaction but didn’t say anything.

She steeled herself. “ _Would_ you do that for me?”

“To what purpose?” Data questioned.

“The children on Algalon are too ill to read,” she hedged. “Music and literary recordings would stimulate their minds, which would aid in their recovery.”

“Ah,” he said. “Yes, that would be a valuable use of my time and resources.”

LaForge approached. “Yeah, I think that’s a great idea,” he said enthusiastically looking at the equipment that T’Mollek had handed Data.

“Thank you,” she said. Something was bothering her and she almost reluctantly asked, “Commander Data?”

He looked up quizzically.

“Do you question other officers when they make requests?” she asked meekly.

“Not generally,” he said. “But Commander Riker has placed me second in command of the Algalon mission, and he advised me to give your requests particular scrutiny.”

She hadn’t expected Data to be on the mission, and her heart sank for numerous reasons. First, she would have to hide from him that she had no intention of using the recording devices in the manner in which she had insinuated she would. Second, her intention to fade into the background and conduct her clandestine mission was now even more in jeopardy. Would she be able to accomplish what she needed to without the intellectually and physically powerful android stopping her?

“I see,” she said simply.

Data cocked his head slightly and studied her. “Your facial expression and tone of voice indicate . . . chagrin.”

“That's just my face and voice,” she said evenly.

“Ah. Very well,” he replied. “I recently had some experience with an emotion chip, but it was apparently not enough to fully understand the intricacies of emotional reactions.”

“My life’s work has included the purging of my emotional reactions,” she said impassively—but with a slight edge.

“Understood.” Data briefly worked on the microphone and receiver with a small hand tool that was nearby, then handed them back to her. “Here. These microphones will now record and transmit sound to these receivers. To transmit, press this button once. To record, press it twice. To play back, squeeze the earpiece like so.” He demonstrated.

“That was very expeditious,” she said in awe. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome.” He waited for her to dismiss herself but she remained standing before him. “Do you have any other requests of my time and resources?”

“Er—no, Commander. Thank you again.”

Data nodded and abruptly turned and walked away. He wasn’t even trying to emulate human behavior with her, and it inexplicably hurt her feelings.

Far more emotionally sensitive, LaForge approached her. Although the chief engineer had been born blind and the VISR he wore didn’t allow him to see her facial expressions, he was extremely intuitive to vocal inflection. “That was a little brusque, even for Data,” he said apologetically. “He’s heard through the grapevine that you’re pretty adamant about being treated like a Vulcan. He’s trying to respect your wish not to be treated like a human, so . . . he’s foregoing the typical . . . niceties of human interaction. It’s . . . kind of a compliment.”

“I see,” she said, mustering her dignity. “Thank you for allowing Data to assist me.”

“You’re more than welcome,” he said warmly. “Y’know, I can see why you’re such a good pediatrician. You really care. Those kids are lucky to have you looking out for them.”

“Thank you, sir.” She made her exit, feeling guilty, embarrassed, and disheartened.

***

It was 1517 hours. Riker and Troi were standing outside the transporter room when T’Mollek turned the corner, instantly slowing from a sprint to a walk.

“T’Mollek!” Troi exclaimed. “What happened to your face?”

T’Mollek opened her mouth to answer, but Riker broke in, explaining that the injuries had been sustained during a holodeck training session. Troi and T’Mollek shared an annoyed look at his interruption and explaining on her behalf.

“I apologize for being late,” T’Mollek said. “I was . . . detained.”

Riker didn’t say a word but only frowned at her.

“Is there something wrong, Commander?” she asked, expecting a reprimand for being seventeen minutes late.

“I’ve said it before,” he said. “I don't think you should be leading this team.”

“Then assign a new leader.”

“Is that what you want?”

“It is not my choice.”

“I'm giving you the choice,” he challenged. “Say the word, and you're off the team.”

T’Mollek knew that if she refused the assignment, she would be sent back to Starbase 11. She had to admit, it did sound tempting. She stared at him evenly but said nothing.

Riker sighed, frustrated. He hadn’t really thought bullying her off the _Enterprise_ would work, but it had been a decent Hail Mary pass. “I don't think you're ready for a _shipboard_ assignment, let alone this,” he muttered. “And yet, here you are . . . mission after mission. Banquets in your honor. And now leading this team.” He narrowed his eyes at her, suspiciously. “Who _are_ you? How did you get this far?”

T’Mollek sighed in relief. He had asked and so she must answer truthfully. He had caught her in a trap of her own making and she realized now that all along, she had been hoping he would. She felt nearly euphoric as took a deep breath and opened her mouth to confess her true heritage and her intentions on Algalon, fully and even gladly prepared to accept the consequences.

“I am Doctor T'Mollek O'Reilly,” she began her confession in the formal manner, “daughter of T’Auvilyn and Jake O'Reilly, granddaughter of S—”

“I know your lineage,” he said, cutting her off in irritation. “So tell me, Doctor. What's your choice?”

Her heart sank. His question had been rhetorical. She was in for a pound now. “I will lead the team.”

Riker indicated the door with a cock of his head. “Go ahead.”

She walked past him into the transporter room.

Riker turned to Troi and whispered, “I can never tell if she's being insubordinate or just Vulcan.”

“She’s feeling ashamed and humiliated,” Troi told him. She added sardonically and a bit judgmentally, “Probably not the best state to be in when leading your first away mission.” She followed T’Mollek into the room, and Riker followed behind her.


	2. Negan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pediatrician is out of her element when she comes face to face with the sexy, charismatic leader of the penal colony. She is shocked to discover he is the man who murdered her parents. The man known to her only as . . . Negan.

Riker, Troi, and T’Mollek stood on their transporter pads. Transporting always made T’Mollek feel squeamish. As a medical professional, she knew that transporting was far and away the safest form of travel. Nevertheless, she dreaded it.

Transporter Chief Miles O'Brien prepared the settings, doing a full body scan of all three. He did a double take at the screen. “Doctor O’Reilly, do you have an extra bone in your leg?” he asked.  
  
“When I was young, I broke several bones,” she said truthfully. “At least one of them didn't heal properly.”

He shook his head and muttered, “I should say not. . . .”

“Energize,” Riker commanded.

They materialized on the grounds of the compound on Algalon, standing outside a modest one-story house. A dirt road led up a steep hill to the east and past a series of large tents to the west. The tents abutted a length of tall fencing lined at the top with barbed wire. Across the road was a two-acre field growing wheat, oats, barley, and corn, with a small vegetable garden next to it. On the west side of the field was a barn to the west and behind it was a large garage with a dusty teal pickup truck outside. To the west of the barn stood a large building with windows and stone steps that led to a double door in front. It had the appearance of an Earth school, circa middle twentieth century, if T’Mollek remembered her mother’s Earth history books accurately.

Jaxon Traegar stood in his front yard waiting for them. He wore dark gray pants, black boots, and a white button down shirt with the sleeves cuffed at his elbows, his tan skin contrasting against the white fabric. His short, dark, tousled hair blew lightly in the breeze. His honey brown eyes twinkled charmingly but had an intensity that T’Mollek sensed could flash dangerous.

He held a vintage baseball bat over his shoulder and wore a black leather glove on his right hand. The inscription on the bat was worn but most of the letters were still visible: L U S ILLE Slugger.

He gave them a wide, straight-toothed smile, dimples showing beneath his short, salt and pepper beard. He was skull-crushingly handsome.

“Welcome!” he called, swaggering toward them. He extended his right hand to Riker, to whom he had spoken earlier. “Commander Riker?” he greeted him with a wide, friendly grin. “Jaxon Traegar.”

“President Traegar,” Riker said, shaking his hand. “I hope we didn’t keep you waiting.”

“Please, call me Jaxon. And not at all. I was just doin’ some batting practice. Thank you so much for comin’ to our rescue.”

The drawl of his dialect was unusual but somehow entrancing, as if from a bygone era. He shook hands with Troi and T’Mollek as well, as they made their introductions. He indicated the steep hill to the east with his hand.

“The capital city, just beyond that hill, was hit pretty hard,” he said, “but this valley was almost completely devastated.”

The remains of bombed out buildings were strewn up the hill and throughout the site all around them. There was no other sign of life. T’Mollek felt a pang of anxiety at the image. The scope of the destruction was breathtaking.

“Our ship’s sensors didn’t read any life signs on the planet,” said Riker. “Not even animals.”

“Yeah, the fallout from the bombings left an intermittent ion cloud that sometimes blocks out sensor readings, communications, transport beams, things like that,” said Jaxon. “It comes and goes.”

“How many colonists survived the war?” Troi asked in concern. As a half-Betazoid, she should be empathically sensing the emotions of thousands of individuals. She could only pick out a few.

“Actually, uh, just me, a half a dozen kids, and . . . the crew of _The Infinity_ , who answered our distress call a year ago. The rest were either killed or captured by the Romulans.”

The three _Enterprise_ crewmen exchanged looks. The initial distress transmission they had received a year hadn’t indicated such widespread devastation. The follow-up communique they had received more recently from Dr. Hall had seemed more desperate but she hadn’t indicated further loss of life among the colonists.

T’Mollek was simultaneously relieved and disappointed that the man T’Sharr had sent her there to seek out was either dead or captured.

“Tell ya what,” Jaxon continued. “Let’s go inside. We’ll talk business first, then I’ll show you around the, uh, ‘Sanctuary.’” He grinned.

They entered the house into the living room. “Let me get you some water,” Jaxon said as he crossed the living room into the small kitchen opposite the front door. His heavy black boots made the floor creak loudly with every step. He took three bottles out of the full-size refrigerator that barely fit in the corner of the tiny room and handed them to the visitors.

As T’Mollek took a bottle from his hand, she noticed a charm hanging from a bracelet he wore around his wrist. It was a small metal skull overlaid on three arrows.

Startled, T’Mollek’s hand lost its grip on her bottle as he handed it to her. Deftly, Jaxon stuck his foot out and kicked the bottle into the air before catching it. He handed it back to her with a vainglorious gleam in his eye.

It was the signature move of the wrestler from her holodeck program.

T’Mollek’s blood went cold. Impossibly, this _was_ the man she had been sent here for. He was Specter—given name, Negan—the former professional wrestler from Earth who had murdered a Cardassian opponent in the ring, kicking off a life of crime that included murder and bioterrorism. He had worn a mask that was decorated to look like a decomposing skull—it matched the charm “Jaxon Traegar” wore.

“That was a pretty slick move,” said Riker, duly impressed, if a little deflated when he saw the effect the maneuver had had on Deanna. She seemed positively stricken.

Jaxon grinned with false modesty. “I play a lot of kick-a-rock.” He turned to T’Mollek and noticed her slightly heavier breathing. He tilted his head down to give her a look, lifting his eyebrows and grinning. “You OK there, Doc?”

“I am fine,” she said, pulling herself together.

Troi looked at her curiously. She sensed extreme nervousness from her, a desire to leave but a desire to stay, for Troi and Riker to leave. _T’Mollek definitely has a type_ , she thought. _Rakish, overly confident men in positions of power_.

Negan led them through the living room and down the hall to the left, the creaking of four sets of footsteps almost deafening.

“We’ll have to send something to take care of those loose floorboards,” Riker joked.

“Oh, yeah!” Negan laughed. “This old house was the only one left standing after the war. I’ve gotten used to it.”

T’Mollek scanned the interior of the house. On the left side of the hallway on the other side of the living room wall was a restroom. Across from the restroom was another room. The door was ajar and inside the room, T’Mollek saw a toddler-size bed and a shelf filled with books and toys.

Riker and Troi had already moved on to the room at the end of the hall. Jaxon prompted the lingering T’Mollek by holding an arm out toward the door invitingly. “My office.”

She entered and sat down in the third chair in front of his desk. She noticed a closed door at the back of the room near the north side wall. Before Negan had seated himself behind the desk, she asked, “Is that your bedroom?”

Negan shot an amusingly startled “what did she just say?” look back and forth at Riker and Troi.

“Uh . . . why, yes,” he drawled charmingly, his eyebrows twitching with good humor and sexy confidence. “Yes, indeed it is.”

Troi didn’t have to be an empath to sense T’Mollek’s embarrassment and humiliation over the verbal misstep.

Riker cleared his throat, not quite believing that had just happened. “Well, all right then, now that we’ve discussed the floorplan . . . what exactly do you need from us, Jaxon?”

“Well, of course, we need basic supplies. Antibiotics, IVs, clean water, sanitation supplies, fuel for our truck. We’ve just about depleted what’s left in the city. And . . . I don’t know if it’s possible, but our solar panels got real damaged by some storms we’ve had. Could someone help us install new ones?”

T’Mollek was staring at the bedroom door, distracted. She slowly became aware of the awkward silence. T’Mollek looked at Riker, then at Negan. They were staring at her expectantly. She blushed.

Condescendingly, as if to a child, Riker said, “T’Mollek, President Traegar asked you a question.”

She blushed deeper. “I thought he was asking you,” she mumbled. “I didn’t realize that engineering needs fell under my scope of responsibility, sir.”

“You are the leader of the team,” he said, surprised that T’Mollek had actually heard the question. “You make all the decisions.”

Genuinely ashamed, T’Mollek asked, “Is that . . . within our capabilities?”

“Yes,” Riker said, a little too pleased with himself. “Of course it is.”

“Then yes, of course we can provide supplemental solar paneling,” T’Mollek said, using her grown-up voice. “Lieutenant Commander Data will be more than capable of installing them.”

Negan smiled gently at her. He didn’t seem at all bothered by her apparent lack of leadership skills. “Wonderful. Thank you.” He slightly held out the first vowel in “wonderful.” It sounded a bit like “ _wuunnerfull_.”

Troi telepathically shot Riker a dirty look. _That wasn’t fair. She’s a doctor, not an engineer_.

Riker, who shared a strong telepathic bond with Troi thanks to their torrid romance earlier in their careers, thought back at her, _I’m sorry, Imzadi, I don’t know why I did that. She brings out the worst in me_.

He cleared his throat and said aloud, “Just make us a list of everything you need, and we’ll do our best to accommodate you. We’ll beam down our medical team and supplies in six hours.”

“Thank you so much,” Negan said wholeheartedly. “We all appreciate your taking the time to help us.” He stood to go. “So I’ll show you the—”

“How long are you planning to stay on Algalon?” T’Mollek interrupted.

“I’m . . . sorry?”

“After the children are cured. Are you planning to come with us on the _Enterprise_ and relocate? Find families for the orphans? Algalon is an all but deserted planet. There isn’t much life for them here.”

Riker cut in, “Doctor, I think it’s a foregone conclusion that the children will be coming with us on the _Enterprise_ as soon as the illness is wiped out.” He looked to Negan for confirmation, and he nodded.

“The infrastructure enhancements he is requesting appear to be longer term,” she said. She suspected that if Negan were to relocate to Betagon, his cover would likely be blown.

“The _Enterprise_ won’t be back for three months,” Riker said. “He’s merely asking for help making things comfortable in the meantime.”

“I’ll be staying on to care for the livestock until a life sciences vessel can be brought in to take them away,” Negan said with a smooth smile. “Any other questions?”

T’Mollek shook her head, thoroughly put in her place.

“Allll righty then,” Negan said. “Let me show you the compound.”

They followed him outside.

“Is that the hospital?” Troi asked, referring to the large building across the dirt road.

“That it is,” he said. He walked toward it and they followed. “It was the village school before the invasion. I was inside, doing a readin’-to-the-children photo op, when the Romulans firebombed the city. It was one of the only buildings on the planet that was spared, besides the house where I’m living now. Couple hundred kids survived the attack, but most of ‘em have died of Tarsen’s in the last year. The ones that’re left are gettin’ weaker by the day.”

They looked in through a window at the children, lying in beds.

“How old are they?” Troi asked gently, sensing the man’s grief.

“Six to twelve,” Negan answered in a low voice. “They started gettin’ sick a few weeks after the Romulans left, a few at a time at first, but it spread fast. Only six kids left now. Doston—he’s eight—was the last to come down with it. It’s been three months. Adiv, the littlest, has been sick the longest, six months. All six of the kids sleep most of the time now. They can’t walk or eat or drink. I haven’t been able to keep them from getting sick or help them get better.”

“How awful,” said Troi, her eyes involuntarily filling with tears. She was feeling his overwhelming sorrow and guilt and powerlessness.

Negan let out a loud puff of air, clearing his head. Then he went on, changing the subject to more officious topics. “These tents will be for you and your team, Doctor,” he said, pointing them out on the opposite side of the road, next to his house. “I hope three are enough. They _are_ a bit rough, but let me assure you, they are secure, they are comfortable, and they are fully equipped with a kitchenette and cooled-air fans. There’s a fire-burning oven, too, for cooking, but you won’t be here through the cold season. Now, there is no running water but there is a latrine next to the hospital, and a well in between. The water’s a little skunky tasting, but it’s fine for bathing and makin’ IVs.”

He led them across the road.                                               

“There’s a beekeeping station about half a mile away, near a grove of maple trees, so we have honey and maple syrup . . . . And here’s our farm. Dr. Hall, the _Infinity’s_ botanist, got it back up and running. A few crops, some livestock.” They saw pigs, chickens, cows, and a horse, fenced into a small corral. The fence was made of old wood and metal wire.

“That fence has seen better days,” Riker remarked, eyeing the loose boards and torn, sharp wires that left a gaping hole.

“Yeah, I’m a politician,” Negan chuckled. “Better with words than my hands.”

T’Mollek shot him a look. No one was more aware of his skill at hand-to-hand combat than she was.

“I need to ask Del to fix it, but he’s been so busy in the field.” He waved at a Berellian man, who was struggling to push a tiller in the distance. Del waved back.

“There’s no need for all that work,” T’Mollek said. “We’ll have a food replicator beamed down.”

“Oh no, that won’t be necessary,” Negan smiled. “We pride ourselves on being self-sustaining.”

“A replicator will eliminate the need for growing, harvesting, and preparing food or clean water. Your time can be better spent in other areas.”

“It’s really no trouble” Negan said, giving T’Mollek an intensely sincere look. “I'm a big believer in delayed gratification. Besides, I’ve never trusted replicated food. All those molecules flying around inside a machine? How do we ever really know that they’re reassembling properly, safely? Besides, _T’Mollek_ , food preparation is an art form. And art is _so_ very important, do you not agree?”

Everything he had just said completely unnerved the doctor, although she couldn’t put her finger on why. After the briefest of pauses, T’Mollek answered, “In many cultures, yes.”

“I’m sure Commander Data can help you fix that fence,” Riker said.

“Where is Dr. Hall?” asked T’Mollek. “I would like to speak with her about the plant life. There are some herbs that may be more effective in the cure for and recovery from Tarsen’s disease than traditional pharmaceuticals.”

Negan opened his mouth to respond but a loud, high-pitched noise from the farmyard interrupted him. One of the smallest pigs was making a break for it and caught his back leg on the broken fence. It squealed in distress. Without a second’s pause, T’Mollek drew her phaser and stunned it to unconsciousness. The animal had been in pain, and it was the most humane thing to do.

Startled by this action, Negan chuckled nervously. “Oh! We-e-ell, yes, about those phasers,” he drawled. “I’m very sorry, but I’m gonna have to ask you keep all weaponry on the _Enterprise_ as well. I do so hope you understand.”

“Sir?” T’Mollek addressed Riker uncertainly. This did not sit well with her at all.

“That won’t be a problem, will it, T’Mollek?” Riker asked. “On a planet populated almost exclusively by sick children and a bunch of pigs?”

“A sounder of swine,” she corrected him under her breath.

“Hm?” he asked. She ignored him.

“I’m a bit of a pacifist,” explained Negan with a humble smile. “Phasers and weapons make me very nervous, especially with children nearby. I promise you, there is no threat here. There are no wild animals remaining on the planet. I’m sure your sensors indicated that.”

“They did,” said Riker.

T’Mollek looked at him in disbelief. The sensors had indicated _no_ life on Algalon, due to this ionic fallout causing intermittent sensor disruption, according to Negan.

“And the Romulan threat is long gone,” he continued. “This was not a planet they found . . . desirable. It was the criminal inhabitants they were interested in, and they’ve all been killed or captured.”

T’Mollek scoffed to herself at the intentional irony but said only, “Of course.”

“Would you mind awfully . . .?” Negan asked Riker, walking over to the unconscious swine. Together, the two strong men carried the animal back to its pen. T’Mollek followed, then put her hand on its head gently, crouching beside it and stroking its head.

“Oh, and one more thing,” said Negan as a casual afterthought. “There’s a lot to do on this farm, and we can’t really do it all on our own. There may be some, uh, chores and things that need to be done that fall outside the realm of medical work.”

“I’m sure you know best what needs to be done,” said Riker. “Dr. O’Reilly and her team are at your disposal. Whatever you say, they’ll do. I trust that won’t be a problem, will it, Doctor?”

Eyeing Negan but petting the pig, T’Mollek answered, “No, sir.”

“So we’re understood,” Negan said, his eyes twinkling at the sight of her affection for the animal. “Well, I look forward to seeing you again, Doctor, in a few hours.”

“Yes, Mr. Traegar,” she said with a slightly ironic nod.

Riker tapped on the communicator badge on his chest. “Riker to _Enterprise_. Three to beam up.”

***

The three officers walked in silence to the conference room from the transporter room to go over the final plans for the mission.

 _Will, go easy on her_ , Troi told her Imzadi telepathically _. She didn’t ask for this._

_You’re right. I’ll be nice._

_What did you think of Jaxon?_ she asked.

_He’s certainly got that ‘lovable rogue’ act down pat._

_Yes, he does . . ._ Troi thought dreamily.

 _Steady_.

They arrived at the conference room and sat down. T’Mollek stared at Riker, willing him to take her off the team altogether.

“Obviously, we should focus our resources on making a diagnosis and administering the appropriate cure,” Riker said. “In the meantime, Data can help Del with their infrastructure needs. The _Enterprise_ will be in the next star system delivering fuel and medical supplies to Starbase 149. That should take about ninety days. Plenty of time for the quarantine to be lifted and the children to be brought safely on board.”

“Good,” said Troi.

Riker, who couldn’t resist a little dig, asked, “Doctor, as leader of this away team, would you like to contribute to the conversation?”

Without acknowledging him, T’Mollek turned suddenly to Troi. “Deanna, do you believe Jaxon was lying?”

Troi was slightly taken aback. “About what?”

“Anything. What did you sense from him?”

“He is strongly paternal,” Troi said carefully. “He is deeply protective of the children. I sensed . . . regret. Guilt. He feels helpless. I sensed that he somehow blames himself for the children's illness and the deaths.”

“Why do you ask?” Riker wanted to know.

“I'm just trying to ‘contribute to the conversation,’” T’Mollek replied lightly.

“What does he have to lie about? Jaxon Traegar is a philanthropist and humanitarian who was sent to govern a penal colony that was overrun by Romulans. He managed to survive and protect a dozen children, watching them get sick and die one by one. He’s waited patiently for a year for medical aid—after many distractions from a certain entity that shall remain nameless.” He glared at T’Mollek accusingly. “Try a little harder to make your contributions more relevant.”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right, you’re dismissed,” said Riker. “Get your gear ready to go in the cargo bay. Your team transports down in less than five hours.”

“Yes, sir.”

T’Mollek left the room.

“Why are you so hard on her, Will?” Troi asked.

“I don't trust her,” he said with a scowl. “There's something off about her. Don’t you sense it?”

“It’s hard to sense anything from her accurately. I get nothing and then sudden, random emotions filter through.”

“What emotions?”

“Fear. Embarrassment. And perhaps most strongly . . . guilt.”

“Well, that seems suspicious enough, doesn’t it?” he asked, feeling vindicated. “Guilt about what? Something she’s done? Or something she’s about to do?”

Troi sighed. “I can’t tell.”

“And what’s the deal with her and Q?” he said, because he still couldn’t let that go.

Troi shrugged. “She's in love with him.”

He chuffed in disgust. “I thought as much. What kind of influence has that menace had on her? She’s probably feeling guilty because she knows he’s solely responsible for her success over the last year.”

“She's conflicted,” Troi said, defending her friend.

“Deanna, you're holding something back,” Riker said, knowing her too well. “What else did you get from Jaxon?”

“I didn’t want to say anything in front of T’Mollek,” she admitted hesitantly. “But she had a point about his truthfulness. Jaxon doesn't trust she’ll be able to cure the children.”

“No?”

“He firmly believes they are all going to die.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It wasn't until after I'd published this that I realized Mile O'Brien was looooong off the Enterprise at this point. Oh well, the whole thing is super AU anyway.


	3. Jet Set

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Technical issues force the pediatrician to command a shuttlecraft to the surface of the planet. Chaos ensues. It's not pretty.

The away team and cargo crew loaded the supplies onto the transporter pods in the cargo bay while Riker supervised the work. He pulled Data aside to give him some guidance on his role on this team. He reminded him that as president of the colony—actually, the de facto leader of the entire planet—Jaxon Traegar’s requests should take precedence over any other.

“Do you mean he is in charge, sir?” Data asked. “Dr. O’Reilly is my acting superior on this mission. Should I not follow the doctor’s orders over his?”

“Use your best judgement,” Riker said. “Jaxon has everything under control. He’s been leading this planet for twenty-five years. I think she’s in way over her head. Plus there’s just . . . something hinky about her. If she asks for something that doesn’t make sense, you’ve got some leeway there.”

Data nodded.

“Oh, and if Q shows up” Riker added firmly, “relieve her of her command.”

Data lifted his eyebrows in a mild show of surprise as he computed this order. “Yes, sir.”

“We’ll be back in ninety days,” Riker said. “We’ll contact you two weeks ahead of our rendezvous date.”

Meanwhile, in preparation for transport, O’Brien was inspecting the cargo—and T’Mollek’s luggage.

“Sorry, Doctor,” he said. “I’ve got orders to check everything to make sure everything that goes to Algalon is on the approved list.”

T’Mollek’s eyebrow raised and she glanced at Riker, but she said nothing. Was he afraid she would actually try to sneak a phaser in her bag? Or a replicator? She hoped he didn’t question the “extra” bone in her leg again. T’Sharr had taught her how to stand on a transporter pod so that the knife looked like part of her own anatomy, but she wasn’t sure if the technique would work on a cargo transporter. She was nervous enough to beam down along with all this equipment. So much could go wrong with the transportation of so many molecules so close together.

Checking her bag, O’Brien opened a small case. “What’s this in here?”

T’Mollek looked down at the transparent self-adhesive disks and earbuds as if she didn’t know what had aroused his suspicion. “Educational supplies,” she said simply. She certainly hoped they would prove quite educational.

O’Brien nodded and replaced the case.

When everything was loaded, the crew, consisting of T’Mollek, Data, Dr. Bechdel, Dr. Richards, and Nurse Wallace, stepped onto the transporter pads.

“Preparing to beam down,” O’Brien said from the control panel. T’Mollek focused on a fixed spot on the wall and concentrated on her breathing.

The crew’s forms phased out and then back in several times, never quite making it all the way. After a long pause, O’Brien frowned and made some adjustments to the screen in front of him.

“Is something wrong, Chief O’Brien?” Riker asked.

“I can’t seem to complete the transport,” he said, making quick adjustments on his panel. “Something is blocking the signal.”

“Bring them back,” Riker said, his annoyed tone masking his concern.

They rematerialized on the transporter pads.

“What happened?” T’Mollek asked, her head pounding. She pushed down the completely illogical fear that the faster a heart beat while in mid-transport, the more likely it would explode or separate from the rest of the body.

“Transport isn’t working,” O’Brien said. “The signal’s being blocked for some reason.”

“Jaxon said that happens periodically,” Riker sighed in frustration. He tapped his comm badge. “Riker to LaForge.”

“LaForge here.”

“Geordi, there’s an ion cloud blocking transporter signal to Algalon. Any idea when it might clear?”

“That’s impossible to say, Commander. Could be hours, could be days.”

Riker grimaced. “We can’t keep Traegar waiting, and we can’t contact him to let him know we’re delayed. Would the ion cloud have any bearing on a shuttlecraft landing?”

“It shouldn’t affect it entering the planet’s atmosphere or reaching the surface. They just might not be able to communicate with us or the planet while they’re en route.”

Riker looked at T’Mollek, waiting for her to say something. She looked back at him, expectantly. Riker sighed exaggeratedly. “Load everything in the _Crisotferetti_. They can still make it to camp before dark.”

“Aye, sir,” said O’Brien. He turned to T’Mollek “I’ll transport the cargo to Shuttle Bay 6 for loading. I’ll meet you there.”

“Thank you, Chief O’Brien.”

***

As the crew reloaded the supplies onto the shuttlecraft, Riker was called to the bridge, leaving T’Mollek in charge of overseeing the project. He left without a word.

Dr. Richards, irked that Dr. Crusher had put T’Mollek in charge and not him, was slow to follow her directions, which she gave with a lack of confidence that fully supported his righteous indignation.

“Please fasten the solar panels, Dr. Richards,” T’Mollek requested.

“Fasten them yourself,” he muttered under his breath but ambled toward the panels.

She knew she should stay silent, remain the meek and under-the-radar leader, allowing the others to outshine her and draw attention away from her. But seriously, she had had enough.

“Excuse me?” she said sternly.

Dr. Richards turned to her. “Excuse you for what?” he asked innocently, while simultaneously trying to intimidate her by staring her down.

T’Mollek was the first to break the stare-off. “Continue your work,” she said quietly, inclining her head toward the solar panels. Her heart was pounding again and she felt light-headed. She went back to assist the others.

When the craft was loaded, the crew climbed aboard. Data and T’Mollek seated themselves at the front of the craft in the pilot and co-pilot seats.

The medical staff sat in the back.

Once again, T’Mollek wished Data had not been assigned to this team. She was a competent enough shuttle pilot; she didn’t need him. Richards could have helped install the solar panels. She would have felt some pleasure giving him that order. She might still order him to assist, just to put him in his place.

T’Mollek glanced back at the cargo. The _Cristoferetti_ was a small craft and space was somewhat limited. However, anything larger would have been overkill for this mission.

She glared at Dr. Richards. “Those solar panels don't appear to be securely fastened. Did you check the straps and pull them taut?”

“Yes, ma'am, I did,” he said in mock deference.

“There seems to be a gap between the fourth and fifth panels.”

“I pulled them taut. There is no gap. I checked all the panels. You need to learn to trust your officers, ‘ _Commander.’_ ”

“He's arrogant, but he's competent, Doctor,” Bechdel defended him, while giving Richards a questioning look.

“We don't like him either, but he is right,” added Wallace. “You can't second guess every little thing your team does. Even Richards.”

“You don't need to throw your weight around to prove anything,” Richards said sweetly patronizingly. “But if you don't believe me, go check it yourself.”

“No, Dr. Richards, I trust you,” she said, studying his face with grim satisfaction. Richards had just replaced Riker as her main antagonist. “Mr. Data, are we prepared to launch?

“Aye, Commander.”

“ _Aye, Commander,_ ” Richards whispered mockingly to Bechdel.

“You don't look good in jealousy,” Bechdel whispered.

“I look good in _everything._ ”

***

The _Enterprise_ had received an urgent distress call from Calagon. A Romulan warbird had been detected in their orbit and it was suspected that they were making moves toward an invasion similar to that on Algalon. Being drawn into a skirmish could keep them busy there for much longer than ninety days.

“The medical away team is preparing to shuttle down to the planet,” Riker told the captain.

Picard tried to reach T’Mollek on her comm badge to inform her of this change in plan, but she didn’t answer. Riker attempted to reach Data, but he likewise did not respond. Picard contacted O’Brien, who told him that the shuttle had just departed.

“Hail Jaxon Traegar,” Picard snapped.

Worf made the attempt. “No response, Captain.”

“What the hell is going on?” demanded Picard.

“The fallout from the invasion created an ion cloud over the planet,” Riker explained. “Traegar said it periodically settles over the area and blocks communications, transport, and scanning capability.”

Picard sighed in annoyance. “Prepare a recorded communique to be transmitted on an open frequency to Algalon. They’ll get it eventually.”

“Yes, sir,” Worf said and made it so. “You may begin recording.”

“This is Jean-Luc Picard of the U.S.S. _Enterprise_ ,” the captain began. “Our return to Algalon may be delayed due to a Romulan invasion on Cala—”

“Captain, look!” Troi cried.

All eyes turned to the view screen. A Romulan scout ship was decloaking in front of them and was preparing to open fire.

Picard clenched his jaw. “Shields!”

***

The shuttle launch went smoothly. T’Mollek watched Data impassively working the controls, anticipating his every move. She had the most experience with this class of shuttlecraft, which had been the reason she had requested the _Cristoferetti_. She felt a pang of jealousy that she hadn’t had the opportunity to prove her skills in this area. Of course, she reminded herself, she didn’t need the extra attention.

And then she saw the distortion field and the Romulan scout ship coming into focus before their eyes.

“What is that?” Richards asked from the back of the craft.

“It appears to be of Romulan design,” Data said impassively. “Not much larger than our shuttlecraft. Perhaps a rover of no more than a dozen crew members.”

There was quite a long pause that grew uncomfortable.

“Awaiting your orders, Commander,” Data said helpfully, turning to T’Mollek.

T’Mollek, who had again forgotten she was in command, ordered, “E-evasive maneuver.”

Data steered the shuttle evasively. They were hit from behind and everyone was jarred.

“Damage report?” T’Mollek asked, wondering if maneuvering evasively had been the wrong call.

“Left deflector shield is destroyed,” Data replied.

The sound of metal slipping against metal came from the cargo hold. T’Mollek looked back and saw that, completely unsurprisingly, a solar panel had come loose and was slowly sliding forward toward the passengers. She made eye contact with Richards.

“Richards, secure those panels!” she barked.

“Are you kidding me?” Richards said, checking the hold of his seat restraints. “We're under attack here.”

“They are about to slip from their tethers. One more hit could send the panels forward with enough force to kill us all. Data, I assume the phasers are online?”

“Yes, they are.”

“Fire!”

The Romulan ship took a hit and slowed down their pursuit.

“The ship is falling behind,” Data reported.

“Good work, Data. Richards, the solar panels. That is an order.”

“Aye-aye,” Richards said reluctantly.

Richards unfastened his seatbelt and put the solar panel back in place. He was about to start tightening the strap when the shuttlecraft took another hit. He suddenly floated into the air along with everyone’s hair.

“We have lost artificial gravity,” Data intoned.

“Ya think?” Bechdel said dryly. “Richards, you OK?”

There was no answer. Richards had been knocked out by the solar panel that had jarred loose in the hit. Blood flowed from his head wound and swirled into the air around him.

Then there was another hit.

“That was our other deflector shield,” Data said in his calm manner. “And our navigation system. We are out of control.” T’Mollek wasn’t sure if his placidity was helpful or not.

“Data, fire everything we have at them and get us out of here.”

As Data opened fire on the Romulan ship, the unconscious and bleeding Richards floated toward the pilot and co-pilot. T’Mollek shoved him out of the way, and he floated toward the back of the shuttlecraft. Blood continued to flow out and float around them like a red cloud.

“I've gotcha, Richards,” Bechdel said, unfastening her seat restraints to retrieve him.

“Bechdel,” T’Mollek yelled. “Avast!”

“’Avast’? Really?” Bechdel floated towards Richards to pull him back to his seat.

“Atmospheric entry is imminent,” announced Data.

“Bechdel, back in your seat,” T’Mollek warned. “NOW.”

“He's hurt,” Bechdel said. “There's a lot of blood.”

“That is evident, Bechdel,” T’Mollek said. “However, we are entering Algalon's atmosphere. You need to be in your seat.”

“I _need_ to help Richards!” Bechdel spat.

“It's too late for him,” T’Mollek said evenly. “He's lost too much blood. He's gone. Remain in your seat. That's an order!”

“Wallace, help me out here.”

“Now entering Algalon's atmosphere,” said Data. “We are in freefall.”

“Bechdel!”

And just like that, the gravitational pull of Algalon replaced the weightlessness of the shuttlecraft. Bechdel and Richards flew upward against the ceiling as the craft plummeted toward the pull of gravity. Richards’ blood, suddenly having weight, splattered onto the ceiling. Bechdel’s neck snapped with the impact against the top of the cabin, and she remained pinned to the ceiling, motionless, eyes closed but breathing, while the craft plummeted to the planet’s surface.

Meanwhile, Wallace, who had just started to unfasten her safety restraints in response to Bechdel’s request for assistance, flew upward toward the ceiling. Her right arm had not been freed from the harness, and the velocity at which her body flew upward wrenched her shoulder from its socket. She shrieked in blinding pain. Blood immediately stained the top of her uniform and spread.

“Wallace . . .” T’Mollek said helplessly.

“My arm! My arm!” she screamed.

“Bechdel, can you help her?”

There was no answer. There was only the sound of the atmospheric forces beating against the shuttlecraft as it fell out the sky. And Wallace’s shrieks, growing fainter as she went into shock, all alone, her arm half-attached to the safety restraint and the rest of her body reaching toward the ceiling.

“Data, can you steer this shuttle safely to the ground?” T’Mollek shouted over the din.

“That remains to be seen,” Data answered loudly. “The hull breach is causing unsafe drag and the shuttle's navigational control has also been compromised.”

“Time to impact?”

“Three minutes.”

“Can we get artificial gravity back?”

“I will not be able to simultaneously restore both navigational control and—”

“Can you walk me through it?” she interrupted him.

“Yes, of course.”

 _Why didn’t you say so?_ she thought.

In the next two minutes, while he worked independently on navigational control, Data verbally instructed T’Mollek on the procedure for overriding the damaged artificial gravity system. The three crewmen who had been pinned to the ceiling instantly fell to the floor—fortunately behind the cockpit and not onto the pilot and co-pilot.

T’Mollek didn’t have a second to lose. While Data was busy continuing to regain navigational control as the craft continued to plummet toward the planet’s surface, she assessed the damage among her crew. She strapped Wallace into her seat first. She didn’t have time to prepare a splint for her semi-detached arm, but she also knew that the supplies they had on board would not be sufficient to save the arm even if they landed safely at the front door of the hospital. She dug through her med kit and found a hypospray to sedate the nurse, who was already near death. Then she moved two of the solar panels to either side of Bechdel, who was almost certainly paralyzed from the neck down from her injury, and hoped they would keep her immobile upon impact. There was no time to help Richards, who was lying with his eyes half-open, his lips already turning blue from pallor mortis.

T’Mollek leapt to her seat and quickly fastened the restraints. “Can you save the shuttle, Data?” she shouted over the increasing noise of the fall. She wasn’t ashamed to admit there was a frantic edge to her voice.

Data remained calm as ever as he shouted, “The success or failure of my attempt to land the shuttle without complete destruction is dependent on a number of factors: the terrain, the weather, the presence of structures or forestry—”

“Just do your best,” she interrupted.

“Always.”

T’Mollek closed her eyes, using every ounce of twenty-five years’ worth of mind training, willed herself to relax completely, even while her body was being painfully and terrifyingly jostled and shaken until she lost consciousness.


End file.
